“Some of the Quarks ones from Glen Rushen, sir, and the Gills boys from Castletown over. Good-night all, goodnight!”
The door closed behind the postman, and Black Tom growled, “Slips of lads—I know them.”
“Smart though, smart uncommon,” said the barber; “that's the only sort they're wanting out yonder.”
There was a contemptuous snort. “So? You'd better go to Kimberley yourself, then.”
“Turn the clock back a piece and I'll start before you've time to curl your hair,” said the barber.
Black Tom was lifting his pot. “That's the one thing,” said he, “the Almighty Himself” (gulp, gulp) “can't do.”
“Which?” tittered the barber.
“Both,” said Black Tom, scratching his big head, as bald as a bladder.
Cæsar flashed about with his face to the glass partition. “You're like the rest of the infidels, sir,” said he, “only spaking to contradick yourself—calling God the Almighty, and telling in the same breath of something He can't do.”
Meanwhile an encounter of another sort was going on at the ingle. Kate had re-appeared with a table fork which she used at intervals to test the boiling of the potatoes. At each approach to the fire she passed close to where Pete sat, never looking at Phil above the level of his boots. And as often as she bent over the pot, Pete put his arm round her waist, being so near and so tempting. For thus pestering her she beat her foot like a goat, and screwed on a look of anger which broke down in a stifled laugh; but she always took care to come again to Pete's side rather than to Phil's, until at last the nudging and shoving ended in a pinch and a little squeal, and a quick cry of “What's that?” from Cæsar.